Last Cigarette
by Eliza S
Summary: ·Lit· Future fic. I turn you into literature as Henry Miller told me. It kept me from drowning. Oneshot


Summary: I turn you into literature as Henry Miller told me. It kept me from drowning.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: I haven't written in a long time but this came to me and I had to write it down because it's time to get back to writing. Enjoy and please review (even if you completely hate this)

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Last cigarette, I thought, putting out the little piece of nicotine. It was very naïve of me to think that knowing how the vice overpowers me.

A little pass midnight and the light of the bright screen stars to bother me, eyes starting to itch with every letter I try to plaster on the white sheet, with the mere act of putting thoughts into words, into sentences, into paragraphs, trying to put some sense into _it._

Five books on my back and it doesn't get any easier with time, the feeling of throwing up when I see my words printed and being sold, it never goes away.

The sudden noise of the telephone ringing in the back makes me snap out of this trance I enter every time I write. How long is it been ringing?

I answer without realizing it's late, late for anyone to be calling. The sweet voice on the other end surprises me, I didn't expect it. Not now, not ever.

You sound tired and nervous. Six years? Huh, didn't even realize how fast the time passed us. You try to make up excuses why you never called or write or send a nice fruit basket. I laugh cause it's been too long, too long to remember something like that.

I can't even begin to grasp the reason behind this overdue phone call, when it hits me. Can't quite figure out even the half of what went wrong since we last spoke. But I can hear it in your voice, sadness and disappointment. Not in me, you reassure when I point this out. I guess I believe you, there's not reason to not trust you after all these years.

You're very trustworthy, aren't you?

Quietly and timidly you ask about my life, about my books and things that we both know don't matter at all, but your need to fill the gaps, so I just put it out there. "Wanna come over?"

That's all it took, I think you don't take into consideration the long drive or how late into the night you'll get here. Just got up and drove, drove as fast as you could, I'm amazed you didn't have second thoughts. You just ran away and now I wonder, what are you running from? All the time, you're running from something, even me.

I can't even get my thoughts together when you appear at my door, with those turquoise eyes and silky brown hair that I long to touch. Feel it between my fingers to transport myself back to when I was seventeen, everything was easier back then.

You blur out you don't have anything to offer and I simple nod trying to make you know there's nothing left to offer anyways. You're 4 or 5 years into marriage now? You try not to cry pulling your head back holding back the tears I can see gathering in your eyes.

Making the situation lighter, you say how much I've changed, praise my work and you blush when I realize you've read them all. _Midnight_ is your favorite.

This unsettling feeling keeps me wondering, until this day; what do you want from me? What do you need from me?

I don't know what I can save you from.

I turn you into literature, as Henry Miller told me. It turned out to be the best advice I've ever taken. It kept me from drowning.

You're selfish; you want to pull me back in. Under, further down with you and I can't say no. You're my weakness.

Your kisses are hungry, desperate, trying to suck the life out of me. Tucking at my worn out shirt you smile like I guess you haven't since 4 or 5 years.

I can't help to ask, you must have expect it.

Why?

You have no words, just an empty stare. I take your chin softly, as I used to. Soft pink lips find their way into dry ones. You don't have to explain.

We put away this lust years ago, denying our bodies of the release of what is natural. My head can't stop harassing me with questions that I don't say out loud. How is _he_ with you? Cold? Harsh? Does he even love you?

It's a dangerous game we're playing; your dress is forgotten along with my shirt, searching for more skin exposure, more to nip and kiss.

Small nails dig further into my back as I quietly enter you. Milky-white skin frosted with dots of cinnamon meets my olive plain skin in quick motions; I keep my eyes on your face just to burn your expressions on my brain. Big doll blue eyes stare at me and I see it, that spark I had forgotten with the pass of time. Everything is new, we never got this far even though we wanted it so bad it hurt, you don't even know how bad it hurt.

You hold on to me for warmth with your slim arms for what it seems hours and I feel exposed and slightly corny. A bit of a cliché- I blur out that I don't want to get hurt. No, I can only take so much. I remind you I'm human. You kiss my neck, my lips _oh so_ softly. A simple gesture that means so much more that I could think of, you ask for my forgiveness in silence, for _all_ of it.

Even though she's only giving me pain, I would give everything for her, just to see her smile widely again.

Not hurrying to leave, you kiss me but I can see that you're yet again running from me, from us. There's no false hope of you leaving him and I'm left with nothing again.

I've won this battle but as it seems I'll always lose the war. I lit another cigarette in the darkness of my room; there are some vices I can't seem to give up.


End file.
